During the 1920s, I had the good fortune to work quite a bit with a master cowboy, Jim O’Dell. One occasion was a cattle roundup and drive to the railroad at Fernbridge. The shipping point was the old Singley Station located toward the river south of Singley Road. An old time cowman, George Cummings, hired me along with Jim O’Dell to help him gather his cattle and move them to the shipping point. The cattle were grazing on Mr. Cummings’ Spanish Ranch and on land to the south that he leased from W.T.S. Hadley. This was a large and rugged area along the Lost Coast west of the Mattole Valley.

The Cowboy (1900), Charles Marion Russell. Public domain.

Jim O’Dell was a good, seasoned cowboy, a superlative camp cook and a skillful packer. He used a pack mule widely known as “Cooskie Dick.” The mule was famous in southwest Humboldt County because no one had ever succeeded in riding him, although he made no objection to being packed. He was convinced that be was a pack mule and nothing else. Jim was adept at throwing the diamond hitch, and we never had trouble with a pack slipping.

Jim had one bad leg, permanently bent between the ankle and the knee, but that did not keep him from doing the things be wanted to do. He wore a pair of chaps made from bear hide, and in a pocket on one leg was usually a flat flask containing moonshine — very acceptable when you were young and battling to acquire a taste so you could be considered a man. Acquiring a taste took a lot of persistence, but it was usually conquered. Jim also bad a good singing voice, and every now and then he would burst into song.

Anyway, we rode down to Big Flat several miles south of the Spanish Ranch to spend the first night before starting the early morning roundup. No cabin was there at the time because of a fire, so we camped, and we had a very good night. After several days of gathering cattle, we moved the herd up the beach to the flat at the foot of Oat Ridge where we got into trouble.

Mr. Cummings had a fenced pasture there, but the fencing was in a poor state of repair. We put the herd in through the gate at the south end, and they broke right out on the north end. Jim said, “Let’s drive them on to Randall Creek. I know there is also a hole in the fence there, but we can camp in the hole.” So we drove the cattle on to the pasture at Randall Creek and camped in the hole, but what Jim did not know was that a little below our camp, toward the ocean, there was another hole in the fence.

After an early breakfast, we found that most of the cattle were missing, presumably on their way back to Big Flat. Mr. Cummings and I went south and got ahead of the cattle at Big Creek, north of Big Flat. Jim went up Lake Ridge above Randall Creek and rounded up the strays from that area, and we were once again on our way, but instead of leaving for the mouth of the Mattole at dawn, it was noon.

Soon after we got underway, an old steer, probably five or six years of age, broke from the herd and charged up the hillside. Our dogs were far from the best, and the steer shook them off and escaped. Evidently this had been a yearly occurrence, because Mr. Cummings said, “Well, Peter is gone again.” I have often thought of that statement. To me it was somewhat humorous. I do not know if Peter was ever captured and brought to market.

When we reached the mouth of the Mattole, we found that the cattle buyer we were to meet there had given up on us and gone home. We were also told that the mouth of the river had quicksand, so we abandoned our plan to cross there and took the herd up the river to Moore Hill, a Clark Rackliff ranch, crossing the river on a shallow riffle with solid footing. Clark’s pasture had a good fence, and we had a pleasant night with no more breakouts.

The next morning, we drove the herd up the river to the mouth of the North Fork below Petrolia, then over the hill to the Domingo Zanone corrals for weighing and sorting. From there we pressed on up the beach and over Cape Mendocino to Capetown, arriving late at night, only to be up again before daylight the next morning. I can still hear Jim saying, “One thing about this business, it sure doesn’t take long to stay all night.”

At daylight we left for Fern Cottage, following the county road to the Oil Creek junction where we left the road and went down by the old Flint place to the beach again and on to Fern Cottage between Centerville and Ferndale. Some of the cattle were separated and driven on to the Williams Creek slaughterhouse. The rest spent the night in a Fern Cottage pasture. We returned to Ferndale and checked into the Ivanhoe Hotel. I will not elucidate on how Jim and I spent the rest of the night.

Next morning, we were a bit bleary-eyed as we started the remaining herd toward the Singley Station. We got word that the Eel River crossing was soft and were advised not to try it. The alternative was to drive the herd across Fernbridge, another rather dangerous operation because a horse’s iron shoes can be treacherous on pavement. Also be informed that these cattle, raised in the wild, knew nothing of cars and trains and would stampede easily.

I went into the lead because I thought it no place for the older men. We got the cattle onto the bridge without incident. However, when we started down the approach ramp on the north end of the bridge, the herd picked up speed and were crowding my horse to the point that I had to use my bullwhip to get off the bridge safely. Then all hell broke loose.

The engineer of a train coming up from the south, but not yet in sight of the cattle, blew his warning whistle. At the same time a paving outfit on the other side of us was making plenty of noise. The cattle started to run, but I used the bullwhip to get the attention of those in the lead and got them to circle, heading off a stampede and giving Jim O’Dell time to demonstrate his cowboy cunning and do the right thing at that moment.

He went across the highway to the store, jumped off his horse, hobbled in and grabbed a pair of pliers, and scrambled with his bad leg up the bank and cut the fence above the highway. We got the herd started through the hole and then drove them through some other pastures onto a holding pasture on Singley Hill. From there it was an easy job getting them into the shipping yard and loaded on railroad cars the next morning. Too bad those days are also gone forever.